Her Majesty
by metacognitive
Summary: /'You see him standing there and all you want to do is grab him and shake him and ask him what the - his problem is.'/ Angela never did understand Bryon. Some of her thoughts after Mark cut her hair. Rated T for swearing. Edited Feb. 2013.


_Summary: /'You see him standing there and all you want to do is grab him and shake him and ask him what the - his problem is.'/ Angela never did understand Bryon. Some of her thoughts after Mark cut her hair.  
Disclaimer: don't own.  
Dedicated to whatcoloristhesky for her help with clearing up some of the details for this story. Without her help, it would've been a mess. By the way, aerodynamics came up with the title, so many thanks!  
_

* * *

**Her Majesty**

_"If you learn from defeat, you haven't really lost."  
__~~Zig Ziglar_

* * *

Look at you, you think wryly, staring at your reflection. All your hair - gone. And you've got a killer hangover. Wonderful. A scowl is on your face. How did this happen? All you remember is going out with the girls, drinking, and then waking up on your lawn. Who did this? They're going to pay hell, that's for sure.

Hmm, you think, the girls. Screw it; you're going to call them, right? You're on the phone, asking your stupid friends about what happened last night.

Bryon. That's what they start to say - that you left with Bryon and - that's all you hear. Bryon, Bryon, Bryon. Bastard. He's going down, what the hell is wrong with him? No one messes with Angela Shepard. At least, not twice.

But wait, you stop. What are you going to do? Huh? You can't hire a guy, they're too goddamn nervous, never do the job. Bryon may scare other people, but he sure as hell doesn't scare you.

Tim. Curly.

You smirk, that evil smile that Tim and Curly always have when they're out being idiots. You're brothers, useless as they may be to you sometimes, sure do come in handy when you need a mess cleaned up. Might be the only thing they're good for, actually, not that you're complaining.

You here a thump behind you. That smile is gone. You turn, glaring at your sorry husband. He greets you, lazily slurring his words. What the_ fuck_ were you thinking? Oh, that's right, you weren't - and it doesn't help that you couldn't get an abortion.

And then- poof! You find out you _aren't_ pregnant. But by then it's too late. Now you're stuck with a good for nothing husband that you hate, and there's nothing you can do about it. Maybe you shouldn't have gotten Tim to help you, considering he's the one who forced you into this joke of a marriage. But Bryon. He sure as hell isn't about to get away with what he did to you. Oh, no, no, no. He's about to regret ever being born once you let Tim and Curly loose on him.

* * *

You pick through the pantry, bored and lonely in your kitchen. The husband's out doing who-knows-what, not that you really care. _God_, you hate this place. You hope it catches on fire, that your husband disappears, and you can go back to normal- unstoppable, invincible Angela Shepard. Jesus Christ, you just want out.

Then again, it is a bit better than home. You snort. _Home_. That isn't a home, and you know it. Homes have parents who can stand being in each other's presence. Sure, they may not like each other, but it's not like they're constantly trying to kill each other. That's not how it's supposed to be, even if you're no-good, low-class greasers. You're a hood, you know it, but sometimes you wish you could've just gone cried to your mother when the trouble began.

It's during your reminiscing that the door bursts open, and Tim is standing there, in all his hood glory. Curly pushes past him, straight toward the refrigerator, and grabs a beer before collapsing on top of one of the old chairs that occupy your kitchen. You see the glint in their eyes, that smirk plastered on Tim's face, and you know that the deed is done.

You smirk back at him, and pull a Curly, handing a beer to Tim.

"Have I ever told you what a wonderful brother you are?"

* * *

It was during fourth period that you found out. You were in the bathroom with your girls, doing your make-up, fixing your skirt. And then Jean bursts in, eyes wide, red hair wild, her breathing like a dog's.

"Mark's gotten arrested -" is all she gets out before the noise erupts. You got to admit, Mark had quite a few admirers. You'd never say it out loud, but he was a looker. Not as handsome as Bryon or Ponyboy but- you stop the thought right in its tracks, a frown on your face. They're too loud, you think, and exclaim, "Shut up!"

Automatically, they do just that. You grin slightly. They're sitting the palm of your hand. You shrug. "So?" it's nothing new, he's already got a record. "What was it for this time? Hot-wiring again, right?" You snort, "It was only a matter of time, why's it -"

"That's not it!" Jean interrupts you. You glare at her. She doesn't have the right to interrupt you- you are Angela _fucking_ Shepard. Jean ignores you, looking at the eager girls she's surrounded by. "He got arrested for pushing!" The noise erupts again, but this time she's prepared.

"Quiet, quiet!" They listen. "That's not all - they're saying _Bryon_ was the one who turned him in!"

Instead of there being noise there's silence. All eyes are on you, but for once, you wish they weren't.

_Oh shit_, you want to say, _that's not possible._ You want to tell them it's not true, that they're like a fucking couple, Bryon would never do that, but all you do is turn your back, hip cocked to the side, and tell them all something that, regardless of the fact that it was _you_ that was saying it, they would never believe.

"It was bound to happen."

You walk out, hips swaying. You're queen.

They never even notice that your make-up is smudged.

* * *

"We're outta beer," he tells you one day. You don't even look up from where you're sitting on the couch, reading that new French fashion magazine that one of the girls, Liz you think, gave you during study hall. You gave her a look, but didn't really care about how she got it. You just took it, smirking as you realized that none of them were as pretty as you - and they were models.

He snatches the magazine right out of your hands. At that your head snaps up, your body rising, with one hand back, ready to smack the shit out of this fool who still thinks he can control you.

He glares at you. "We're outta beer." He repeats. You raise your eyebrows, arm still poised in midair. You can smell the alcohol on his breath, and you feel like telling him that if he wasn't such a goddamn pansy-ass drunk and that if he had a job there would be more booze to drink, but all you do is lower your hand and hold it out for the magazine. "Gimme the magazine, _babe_," you say mockingly, "just lemme finish the article and I'll go, got it?"

He nods, and smiles, thinking he's won. You can't help but grimace at his retreating form. _What an ass_, you think, _what the hell was I thinking, letting him get me like that?_ Then you remember that you were drunk at the time, which means he probably was to, and that you two are a match made in heaven. _Right_.

* * *

Booze is what makes the world go around. Booze, sex, and money. You can't help but realize it's because of those three things that you're stuck in the situation you're in now. Booze: you were dead drunk, moron, or else you wouldn't have been such an idiot, like the rest of your goddamn family. Sex: Come on. Sex is the very _reason_ you're like this. You had sex with that sad excuse of a hood and thought you were late. No excuse, you moron. Money: if you had money, _you wouldn't be drinking and having sex with strangers_. That's it. Money would have made all the difference and you know it.

You walk into a store - the exact same store that Bryon works in. You went there with a reason. You know it, and you plan on making him miserable, and that's what you live for, right?

So you walk in, with those short shorts that no decent girl would wear, same as your tight blouse. You go straight for the beer, grabbing a random brand for what's-his-face. You stride towards the counter, and stop, staring at Bryon, daring him to say something. Your head's cocked, and you wait. He returns the stare for a few seconds, not saying anything.

Then he asks you, "How've you been, Angel?" And then you feel anger. Inexplicable anger at him, because _this_, this is not Bryon. The real Bryon does not just ask you "How've you been?" - no, he insults you, and you insult him, and it just repeats itself over and over again. He's angry and patronizing and yes, a little bit sexy, because that's what made you want him in the first place. Bryan is someone who knows what's going on, who lives and goes along with all of life's misfortunes because it's one hell of a ride. He's wild and dangerous and, and, -

_No._

The person standing before you is just some shell of - of _nothing_. He hasn't done _anything_ since Mark left, everyone knows it. No dates, no one-night stands, no joking around. For God's sake, he hasn't mouthed off to _anybody_. You see him standing there and all you want to do is grab him and shake him and ask him what the fuck his problem is.

Instead, you tell him, "Well enough. I hear you dumped little what's-her-name on Curtis. Well, they deserve each other." He doesn't say anything, just shrugs and rings up your stuff. You glare at him. What the _fuck?_ Where are the insults, the smart-ass comments? You continue - it's never been hard to piss off Bryon.

"You know, I'd thought for a long time you were really low, Bryon, but what you did to Mark really proved it," you say, and mentally congratulate yourself. That's right hit him where it hurts.

Bryon doesn't even flinch. "Angel, you look really good with short hair."

There you are, ready for an argument, with all your comebacks ready, and then he springs _that_ on you? You stop, and stare at him. What are you? Scared? Hell no. Maybe. But this isn't fun anymore. You want to back away, because this is like dealing with an animal that might turn on you when you look away. You almost hope that's the case, because then at least some part of Bryan - cowardly, crazy Bryon who you thought you knew so well - still exists. But instead, you pay him, grab the goddamn booze and walk out without a second glance.

Screw Bryon.

You've got more important things to worry about.

* * *

_a/n: edited as of 02.23.13_


End file.
